


O Pollen of Plenty

by omgbubblesomg



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Due to aforementioned sex pollen, Fanart, First Time, Fuck Or Die, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Pining, Sex Curse, Sex Pollen, Spit As Lube
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-20
Updated: 2020-03-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:55:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23223634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omgbubblesomg/pseuds/omgbubblesomg
Summary: He tries to get Geralt’s attention but he finds that his hands are on Geralt’s neck. When did they get there? He watches while they go down the collar of Geralt’s shirt. Geralt will probably slice his arm off for that. Well, he’s lived a nice life. May as well die doing something outrageous.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 66
Kudos: 533





	O Pollen of Plenty

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as a continuation of the last fic, [Toss A Salve To Your Witcher](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22041796), but then it developed teeth all on its own. Some day I'll write this ship without sex pollen, but today is not that day.
> 
> Thanks to trisscar and cookie for reading over this before posting! 😍

It’s an accident, really. Jaskier’s waiting at camp, picking out a new melody and minding his own business when Geralt decides to pay a visit and bring his good friend the eight-foot-tall demon-lizard.

“I do love it when you bring guests home,” Jaskier says from behind the first thing he can find to hide behind. Which is Roach.

Geralt doesn’t reply. He’s doing that black-eye thing which makes his face look like a spiderweb’s wet dream. He’s going to be all cranky about it tonight, no doubt, when it takes too long for the toxins to dissipate. He goes for the lizard with his silver blade, but he’s clearly outmatched. His blows glance off the lizard’s scales like he’s wielding a ladle instead of a sword. The lizard has sharp spines jutting out of its back and tail and arms. Geralt avoids them carefully, which is probably why the thing gains an advantage, tossing him into the forest.

“Geralt!” Jaskier shouts, because sometimes he’s an idiot and sometimes he’s an even bigger idiot, and drawing attention to himself in the presence of some unnatural monster falls into the second category. The lizard turns to him, rising onto two legs. Roach peacefully chomps on a tuft of grass, oblivious. The lizard raises one bejewelled arm with six jagged barbs coming straight out from where the wrist should be. It points all six barbs at Jaskier, which is quite rude because he has a strict no-pointy-things-near-his-face policy.

“Oh no, no,” he says, backing up. “You don’t want to hurt me, I’m just a bard. You’re looking for the mountain-shaped man with silver hair. He should be back any moment now.”

The lizard raises its arm a little higher and Jaskier has just enough time to think that this would make an excellent adventure poem if he lived to write it, and then the barbs are descending towards his face. What an abysmal way to die.

Geralt arrives right on cue, for once in his life, tackling the lizard-thing so the barbs rip down the side of Jaskier’s tunic instead of through the side of his jugular.

He sits down heavily, and looks at Roach. “Why do they always try to eat _me?”_ he asks her. “You would be far tastier.” Roach starts nibbling on a dandelion, a little too pointedly in Jaskier’s opinion. Maybe she wants to eat him next. She likes dandelions. He wouldn’t be very tasty. He feels a little odd. He would probably make Roach sick if she tried to eat him. He opens and closes his hands a few times, but it feels like someone else is moving his hands for him. Huh. Near-death adrenaline does tend to muck about with his extremities. And it’s a travesty that he’s had enough near-death encounters to know that about himself. Still, this is odder than usual. He takes off his ruined doublet.

He looks over at where Geralt has finally managed to get an advantage over the lizard. One of its scales has torn off and Geralt is stabbing at the red flesh underneath, dodging barbs as he does. Jaskier blinks. Geralt is moving a little too fast to track properly. He’s gone all blurry. Or maybe it’s Jaskier who’s gone blurry. He feels a little blurry. And very warm. He unlaces his undershirt. There’s more blood on his torso than he thinks there should be. In fact he’s pretty sure that the optimal amount of blood on his torso is usually zero. The barbs must have got him after all. Well, isn’t that just rotten. There’s blood leaking down and saturating his trousers, so he starts to unlace them as well. Lucky he’s not wearing anything underneath to get ruined as well.

“It’s hot,” he tells Roach.

“Fuck,” Roach says back. Which is odd. Because Roach doesn’t usually swear. Come to think of it he’s not sure Roach has ever talked in her life.

“We’ll work on your manners,” Jaskier tells her. His trousers have gotten all stuck around his shoes. He tries to kick them off but his limbs aren’t working very well. It’s very warm all of a sudden. He needs to touch his cock. Which doesn’t make any sense but actually it makes perfect sense. He’ll feel better if he touches his cock. And so he does. But then Roach pulls his hands away except it isn’t Roach, it’s… “Geralt!”

Geralt’s fingers are cool on Jaskier’s wrists.

“—get you?” Geralt’s asking. Jaskier smiles at him. He’s still a little blurry. Although Jaskier’s starting to think that it’s his eyes that are blurry.

“Is it hot?” Jaskier asks him. Geralt takes his hands off Jaskier’s wrists. Which is not very nice at all. But then he puts his hands on Jaskier’s side and that’s even better, Jaskier will allow him to keep doing that. He will write Geralt an ode if Geralt keeps touching Jaskier’s side. Except Geralt doesn’t like odes. Maybe a ballad. _The Ballad Of The Witcher’s Hands._ Jaskier would write whatever Geralt wanted. He would even stoop to limericks.

“There once was a wolf from the slums,” he says, a little slurred. What rhymes with slums? This is important. Does Geralt know? He tries to get Geralt’s attention but he finds that his hands are on Geralt’s neck. When did they get there? He watches while they go down the collar of Geralt’s shirt. Geralt will probably slice his arm off for that. Well, he’s lived a nice life. May as well die doing something outrageous.

Except Geralt doesn’t dismember him. He bends low over Jaskier and for a moment Jaskier things he’s going to kiss his stomach, but instead Geralt sniffs him. And then he wrinkles his nose. Which is mighty unfair since it was Geralt’s idea to spend the last week on the road instead of paying for a nice bath in a nice inn with a nice soft bed.

Geralt wouldn’t wrinkle his nose after that. Not after Jaskier was scrubbed up and wearing his new red tunic, or wearing nothing at all. Geralt could scrub up and wear nothing at all, too.

Which is funny, because he has never once in his life imagined Geralt scrubbed up and wearing nothing at all. But now the thought is in his head. And there it shall stay. Geralt laid out on an enormous bed in the most expensive room available. His hands behind his head and his swords propped against the mattress. And his hair, brushed and splayed out on the pillow like a silver waterfall. And his thighs parted just the right amount for Jaskier to fit in between them.

Geralt looks at him. Because he has just asked Jaskier a question. Jaskier missed the question. He should make up an answer. There’s something bumpy under his fingertips. A scar. He traces it idly. Even the scar is cool to the touch.

“I don’t know,” he says. Which must be the wrong answer because Geralt’s hands disappear, and he pulls away from Jaskier’s, and then he must light a fire nearby because suddenly Jaskier is _hot._

“Jaskier,” Geralt says.

“Put it out,” Jaskier begs. It’s _hot._ The fire’s under his skin. Geralt is talking to him. Geralt is asking him something. How can he even think? Jaskier’s eyeballs are going to melt right out of his face. He reaches for his cock, but it’s not the same. Even his hands are hot. He touches himself anyway; can’t make himself stop. It only makes him hotter.

And then Geralt is there. His hands are on Jaskier’s shoulders. Jaskier could fall into him. Jaskier could bury himself alive in Geralt’s body. He’s clawing at Geralt’s shirt. He needs _skin._ Why is the fire still burning? Wasn’t he just saying that? Fabric rips beneath his fingers and yes, _yes,_ that’s what he needs. Why has he never done this before. Geralt is glorious. Geralt feels like salvation. Geralt _looks_ like salvation. Jaskier needs to burrow right into his belly and never come out. And then Geralt moves his hands. _Again._ Doesn’t he realise that Jaskier is burning up? Jaskier has to touch himself instead. He has to touch _something._

Geralt’s still talking to him, and he turns Jaskier around so he’s kneeling facing a tree. _Hello tree._ Geralt takes hold of his wrists and pries them away from his crotch. Jaskier could weep. He can’t. He won’t. He _needs to touch himself._ But Geralt is inexorable. He puts Jaskier’s palms on the tree trunk and then, glory be, he’s kneeling behind him. His chest is against Jaskier’s back. He’s knees are on the inside of Jaskier’s. He’s sweet relief, like a chill wind at the end of a summer day. He wraps one arm around Jaskier’s chest and Jaskier tries to turn to face him but Geralt just turns him back.

“Don’t,” he says. “It’ll be easier if you’re not—” And then whatever else he’s saying gets lost because his other hand scoops into place around Jaskier’s cock and Melitele preserve him, where has Geralt’s hand been all these years. Squandered away as a hand used for fighting, no doubt. What a waste. Geralt’s hand should have no further employment except to form a loose fist around him, as it’s doing now. Geralt’s hand should do this for the rest of Jaskier’s life, which admittedly feels like it won’t be much longer anyway. But it’s good, it’s better than good. Forget the ballads, he’ll write Geralt an entire epic, anything he wants as long as his hand stays right where it is, curled around him like it belongs there. The Nilfgaardian army could waltz through their camp and Jaskier would beg him to stay right where he is.

He’s vaguely aware that he’s babbling. Something altogether unpoetic about Geralt’s hand. About Geralt’s chest. About the rest of Geralt’s body. He tries to grind his ass back against Geralt’s crotch but Geralt won’t let him. _Please,_ he might be saying, or maybe he only wants to say that. It feels like there a lot of words he wants to say, but they’re all lodged up somewhere behind his tongue. A terribly embarrassing situation for a bard to be in.

Geralt doesn’t tease, now that he’s here. He jerks Jaskier with quick, efficient flicks of his wrist. Despite all his initial hesitance he handles Jaskier confidently. He handles Jaskier like he knows what he’s doing. He has blade callouses and rein callouses and callouses from Gods-knows what else, but they’re worn smooth from decades on the road. There are no rough edges. Jaskier hurts everywhere except where Geralt’s touching him, and if there was a single skerrick of his brain that was left unafflicted he might be having some kind of epiphany about that, but for now he’s just… he’s _grateful._ Grateful in a bone-deep kind of way that is going to cause all kinds of problems later. He’s so glad that it’s Geralt, and that Geralt knows what to do, and that Geralt’s touching him.

He tips his head back onto Geralt’s shoulder and shudders up into his grip. Geralt’s rhythm falters and for a moment Jaskier thinks that he’s going to hook his chin over and kiss him, but the moment passes, and instead he’s being pushed gently back upright.

He looks down his body, suddenly needing to see. His chest is heaving with breaths he can barely feel. His skin is sweat-slick and red as though he’s spent the day in the sun. And below that… Geralt’s fist, which grips him easily. Jaskier’s never been too invested in comparing himself to others, but the size of Geralt’s hand makes him think about everything else Geralt has, and he can’t help the passing thought that _Geralt is probably big everywhere._

The thought sends a surge of heat through him and for a moment he thinks it’s happening, he’s about to come, but instead the heat just disperses into his limbs and he’s hot again. It _hurts_ again.

“Geralt,” he gasps. He might say something else. He might be begging again. _Make me,_ he’s saying. _Faster, please._ Whatever he says has absolutely no effect on Geralt whatsoever. If anything he slows down like he intends to stop completely. “I shall never forgive you,” Jaskier warns him, and then immediately forgives him when Geralt’s thumb starts rubbing insistently on the underside of Jaskier’s cock, his nail catching under the head. It’s a move so practiced that Jaskier can’t help but think that this must be something he does to himself, this must be how he touches his own cock. Jaskier’s testicles give a near-painful lurch to let him know that they probably won’t live through this frankly brain-melting realisation. Though he’s starting to think that maybe none of him is going to live through any of this. He’s so hot he’s fairly sure he’s about to start breaking out in blisters.

“Come on, Jaskier,” Geralt tells him, and Jaskier thinks that maybe this isn’t the first thing that Geralt has said. He’s got a vague feeling that Geralt’s been encouraging him for quite some time now. Except he doesn’t sound all that encouraging, actually. He sounds _urgent._ Everything’s beginning to feel a little urgent. Everything is beginning to feel a little like maybe he should have set aside some coin for a gravestone already. He needs to tell Geralt, he needs to say thanks for… for _something_ … and more than he needs to tell Geralt that he’s grateful he _needs to fucking come_ and it’s his own body that won’t let him.

“Come on!” Geralt says again, holding him tighter. His hand is flying over Jaskier’s cock. Jaskier is strung so tight there’s no way he shouldn’t be coming. His cock is hard enough to spar with. He feels like Geralt’s pushed him right to the edge of a cliff that keeps moving away from him and the fire has caught up and this is it, this is how he dies, unsatisfied and burning.

“I can’t,” he tells his own hands, which have returned to their position on the tree trunk. Maybe Geralt put them back there. He can’t remember. Sweat is dripping into his eyes. Geralt’s body is cool against his own but Jaskier needs an entire snowstorm, and Geralt is just one man.

“You’re fucking gonna,” Geralt snaps, furious, and his other hand leaves Jaskier’s chest, where he’s only just realised it was fondling him, and he hears Geralt spit, and then the hand snakes it’s way down the front of Jaskier’s body and he’s got maybe half a second to think — _is he going to—_ before, oh, yes, he already has, he’s shoved his finger into Jaskier’s asshole.

 _That must be murder on his wrists,_ approximately 0.1% of Jaskier’s brain thinks. The rest of his brain is busy liquefying itself, and it’s a race to see whether it’s Geralt that will turn him into a puddle or the inferno that’s raging under his skin.

Geralt’s finger jams deeper, not even close to enough lubrication easing the way, but now there’s cool relief inside him and Jaskier feels the tide turn. He clenches his eyes shut, his body jerking weakly in Geralt’s arms. Geralt’s fingertip finds what it’s looking for and Jaskier’s already almost there, he’s tipping right over the burning precipice, and then Geralt presses against something from the inside. It feels like the base of his cock. Geralt just digs his fingertip right into it and the fire ratchets up until Jaskier thinks he’s burning alive, but he’s not, he’s shouting, and Geralt pulls back, shoves again, wrings Jaskier’s cock like this is life-or-death which it is, it fucking is, and Jaskier thinks _Yes that’s done it,_ at the same time as he thinks _It’s too late to help,_ and then there’s Geralt’s voice over the top, telling him to do it, _ordering him to come,_ and Jaskier erupts into a human-sized ball of flame except the fire packs down into his torso, and then his belly, and then compresses even further into his cock and he realises he’s not a literal ball of flame, only a figurative one, and he’s coming. He’s shooting all that awful heat right into Geralt’s hand and Geralt’s touching him through it, demanding, coaxing every drop of fire out of his veins.

The only reason he knows Geralt’s finger is no longer inside him is because Geralt’s arm comes back up to wrap around his chest, and the only reason it comes up to wrap around his chest is because he’s gone limp, completely limp. Totally incapable of supporting even his own body weight.

Geralt brings his other hand up, and for a heartstopping moment Jaskier thinks he’s about to lick his hand clean but instead he just sniffs at it over Jaskier’s shoulder, and Jaskier feels the _Hmm_ more than he hears it. A deep rumble in Geralt’s chest followed by a flick of his hand, carelessly flinging Jaskier’s seed into the grass. And then he wraps his hand back around Jaskier’s cock and Jaskier does cry out, at that, though not a single muscle in his body moves to stop him. He’s so spent. Gods help him, not again, please not again, he’s got nothing left to give. Geralt rubs him gently, reaches further down to massage his balls. It’s agony, but he finds he does have more left, just the tiniest little blurt, barely a drop, and Geralt sniffs this, too, and he must find what he was looking for because he lets Jaskier go all at once, and Jaskier crumples like a doll with all its strings cut.

 _So,_ he thinks. _This is what death feels like._

“You’re not dying,” Geralt tells him, which means he’s either spoken aloud or Geralt can smell what he’s thinking, too. Which, honestly, maybe.

“I think I’ll be the judge of that,” he says.

Geralt snorts something that could be laughter, and then walks away.

Jaskier stares at the tree. There are little shredded pieces in it where he must have ripped out the bark. He doesn’t remember doing that.

He should… He should get up. He should probably find some clothes. He should do a lot of other things, actually, starting somewhere in the vicinity of cleaning himself up and ending somewhere in the vicinity of drinking the nearest inn’s supply of wine.

He does none of those things. He just stares at the tree.

After a while Roach wanders over, and he aimlessly wonders if she witnessed what just happened, and if he should apologise to her or something.

“Jaskier,” Geralt says sometime after that. His voice is very very blank. “There’s some food here for you.”

“Okay,” Jaskier says. He doesn’t get up. He can’t hear Geralt walking over but that doesn’t really mean much. He wouldn’t be able to hear Geralt stomping over, either.

“You should at least drink something,” Geralt says from a foot behind him, and Jaskier’s overtaxed body does its best to jump. Which really just means his pinkie finger twitches.

“Okay,” he says again, when nothing better comes to mind.

Geralt grunts. There’s another pause, and then his hands are on Jaskier’s upper arms, and he’s pushing him upright. Jaskier goes where he’s shoved. Geralt jams something over his head. An enormous shirt. One of Geralt’s, maybe. He doesn’t bother pulling Jaskier’s arms through. Then there’s a waterskin at his lips and Jaskier drinks from it until there’s nothing more to drink. Then he looks at the tree a bit more.

“Geralt,” he says.

“Don’t,” Geralt tells him.

A few minutes pass, and Jaskier doesn’t know if Geralt’s still standing behind him or not. “I think you just saved my life,” he says.

“Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

He tips over sideways, and stares at the tree a bit more. He should say thank you. And he should also probably apologise. He’s pretty sure he said some things. Actually, he’s very sure he said some things. Things about Geralt’s… everything. His hands, mostly. Though the vivid image of Geralt lying naked on an enormous inn bed almost definitely made the cut as well. And if he talked about Geralt lying invitingly on a bed then he probably also talked about Geralt inviting him into that bed. And if he made it that far he would have gone further.

And Geralt didn’t stop him.

Geralt didn’t even shush him. Although, if he had, Jaskier wouldn’t have heard it. Or obeyed it.

Geralt just… touched him. Which is absurd. Because Geralt doesn’t even _like_ him.

Except he must, because he did all that to save Jaskier’s life.

Jaskier manages to roll over. The creeping dusk makes the camp look a little less obliterated than it otherwise would have. The lizard is nowhere to be seen which means it either escaped, or Geralt politely dragged the corpse away. Jaskier is really hoping it’s the latter. He doesn’t think he would survive a second encounter.

Geralt is laid out next to a little fire. His eyes are closed, though he can’t possibly be asleep already. He hardly sleeps most nights anyway. The only reason he stops at night is so Jaskier can sleep, which is awfully nice of him, now that Jaskier thinks about it. His blanket is old and ratty, but Jaskier knows it’s warm because Geralt’s given it to him when his own blanket can’t keep out the night chill.

Carefully, he wiggles his arms out of the sleeves of the enormous shirt. His side isn’t bleeding at all now. The scratches look mostly healed already. He spies his trousers and crawls clumsily over to them. Once he’s managed the ordeal of getting them on he stumbles over to the fire, and lies down on the opposite side to Geralt. He stares at the stars for a bit, and then rolls over to look at Geralt over the dimming flames.

Geralt’s hair is knotted and dirty. Even dirtier than his clothes. He’s about as far from scrubbed clean and inviting as it’s possible to get, and yet…

Oh dear.

Oh, what an unfortunate epiphany to have about the man who was just forced to wring an orgasm out of him less than an hour ago.

Isn’t falling for someone supposed to feel good? Jaskier doesn’t feel good. He feels exhausted.

“Go to sleep, Jaskier,” Geralt says without opening his eyes.

Jaskier rolls over to look up at the stars that are slowly blinking to life.

And he sleeps.

**Author's Note:**

> I really want to turn this into a 5 x 1 fic! If I end up writing more I'll turn this into a WIP and add more chapters but until then I'm calling this complete 👀
> 
> And now the customary read more! If you like sex pollen fics you should check out [You've got me gone and lost and found](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22712419) by seventeensteps, which deserves way more notes than it has! If you prefer your hurt!jaskier with a bit more comfort, then you might like [Maybe a Love Song Instead](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22967740) by EgoDominusTuus.
> 
> Thanks for reading :)
> 
> Edit 23/03/20: we now have art! You can see the full size image on my twitter [here](https://twitter.com/omgbubblesomg/status/1242062225080070144)  
> 


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